


Begin Again

by Faster_Than_the_Speed_of_Sound



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Castiel Heals Dean Winchester, Castiel Saves Dean Winchester From Hell, Castiel and Dean Winchester Have a Profound Bond, Cute Castiel/Dean Winchester, Cute Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester in Hell, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff, Gentle Castiel (Supernatural), Healing, Hell, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, I promise, M/M, Past Torture, Rebuilding Dean's Soul, Serious Injuries, Soul Bond, Souls, Sweet Dean Winchester, Warrior Castiel (Supernatural), Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:08:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27241687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faster_Than_the_Speed_of_Sound/pseuds/Faster_Than_the_Speed_of_Sound
Summary: General Castiel, one of the greatest warriors of Heaven, is assigned a mission: Raise the Righteous Man from Hell before he breaks the First Seal and sets the Apocalypse in motion.He accepts without a second thought. After battling for three days, however, and losing most of his troops, Castiel arrives to find that he is ten years too late.Unable to simply leave the broken soul to suffer for eternity, Castiel takes Dean Winchester with him and heals him, all the while trying to regain his grace in the depths of Hell. Perhaps humans aren't so bad after all...
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 16
Kudos: 119





	Begin Again

**Author's Note:**

> *Comes out of hiding for the first time in weeks and tentatively waves* Hi. Did you miss me? No? I'm still sorry, if that helps.
> 
> For those of you wondering: Don't worry about it. For those of you who know exactly what I'm talking about and read No Promised Tomorrow: Do you still hate me?
> 
> Anyway, even if you do, I have fluff and a popular headcanon to appease you. Here goes: The idea is that Castiel healed Dean's soul when he raised him from Hell, right? What if they fell in love during their time in Hell and Dean forgot when he was put back on Earth, and that's why Cas is always staring at Dean?
> 
> I did my own spin on this. It feels a LITTLE rushed to me, but I hope you'll enjoy it. There's fluff and some adorable Dean in there, so have fun. ;) If you have any questions, I don't bite! Please don't hesitate to ask. :) Enjoy the story!

**Castiel**

Castiel knew they were in for a long fight when his armor dimmed.

In all his training, he’d never imagined just how _dark_ it was in Hell. In Heaven, the clouds were lit with the power of the sun and the reflection of the moon. Here, in the darkest bowels of damnation, there was practically no light at all.

Castiel’s garrison had been fighting for three days. They’d broken through the shell of the First Ring exactly thirty-seven hours ago. They’d begun fighting soon after that.

Three days and five Rings later, they were now entering the Sixth Ring of Hell. Castiel broke through first.

He knelt immediately, raising his shield against the onslaught of fire that greeted him. When the angels had first arrived, they’d hacked through hordes of surprised demons easily. The creatures of Hell had been shocked to see warriors of Heaven coming toward them. Some had even run in fright.

By now, the armies of Hell were ready. They had something precious they were protecting, something worth all the angels who had fallen to demonic swords in the past few days:

The Righteous Man.

Castiel knew he was being held somewhere in the Seventh Ring, knew that he had been here for forty years. By the end of the current day, the human soul would suffer no longer.

Gritting his teeth, shield growing hot with the temperature of the hellfire raining down on them, Castiel pushed forward. He jerked as a horrific scream reached his ears, eyes flicking to the side as one of his sisters was consumed by fire.

She would be fine, relocated to Heaven. Any angels felled here wouldn’t die immediately. They would return to the Host, and they would heal and repair their grace there. It was more of a disgrace to die in the first few seconds of battle than anything. Then again, this was hardly their first battle of the campaign.

Castiel gripped his sword tightly, jolting as a particularly harsh wave of fire rushed over them. The slight gap between the bottom of his shield and the ground allowed for a flicker of it to get through, searing a line of pain across Castiel’s ankles. Hissing angrily, the angel slammed his shield into the dirt, digging the bottom edge into the red earth.

“ _How much longer can they keep this up?_ ” Jasiel, a young angel, shouted next to him. Castiel could see that he was doing the same with his shield, the edge dug into the dirt, sword raised in a ready position. This was only the fourth campaign the young angel had been on, and Castiel distantly reflected that it was quite the mission. Until now, angels hadn’t pierced the crust of Hell since Lucifer had created it.

“ _Not much longer_ ,” Castiel replied grimly. The humming of the defending angels’ grace was getting louder, preparing to launch a counterattack the second the hellfire ceased. “ _Steady yourselves_.”

He felt the chorus of acceptance more than he heard it. Even so deep in Hell, the connection between him and his brothers and sisters was still strong. Their graces wound around each other, touching and steadying and preparing.

Another wave of fire came, and then there was nothing. 

Castiel didn’t make the mistake of looking over his shield to make sure everything was safe. Some of his fellow angels did, and they died under the final onslaught of fire.

The demons were getting smarter. Castiel wasn’t sure if they’d understood what the angels had been saying, but it seemed they’d paused their fire to make it seem like they were finished. When the angels had broken their cover, they’d launched the final attack and seared them apart. Maybe they’d been smart, maybe they’d been lucky. Either way, the felling of Castiel’s fellow angels would not go unpunished.

The angel general raised his sword, standing from where he’d been curled behind his shield. As he stood, he took in the mass darkness of thousands of demons, cruel swords gleaming darkly in the dim red light. There were so many, Castiel couldn’t find the edge of their army in the quick glance he spared them.

Castiel roared a battle cry and charged.

Behind him, his brothers and sisters fell into line, shouting battle cries of their own. Their numbers had been greatly reduced. It seemed the last hellfire attack had taken out more of them than Castiel had anticipated. It was worrying, but he knew they might need to go for a more stealthy attack soon. It would take far longer, and would prolong the suffering of the human soul they had come to save, but it would ensure their arrival. Right now, that was all that mattered. They would make sure the fall of their brothers and sisters wouldn’t be in vain.

Teeth gritted, Castiel raised his sword.

He was met with at least nine demons, six of which he cut through easily. The heavenly blade in his hand hummed with pure grace, a line of pure white energy amidst so much darkness.

The demons screamed and fell all around him, the shouts of his brothers and sisters rising like thunder in the night. Castiel could hear explosions of more hellfire around him. As he waded deeper into the horde of demons, attacks coming from all sides instead of just in front of him, his wings drew up to protect him.

The demon before him bared its teeth, and Castiel shoved his sword down its throat.

“ _Castiel!_ ” someone screamed, distracting Castiel from the horde of demons he’d just started beheading. It was a panicked, feminine voice, and Castiel turned to find Myrael on her knees, being pressed from all sides by demons.

He sent out a pulse of grace, the very earth beneath his feet cratering beneath him at the force. The shockwave of his power sent demons flying in all directions, and Myrael was able to shakily get back to her feet. She fell into step beside him, working to shove back more demons.

“ _There’s too many of them. I have never seen so many demons_ ,” she said, prompting Castiel to look up and really take in the battlefield.

More angels had fallen, their essences burning bright for a second before disappearing to rejoin the Host. It seemed that the demon army had grown exponentially, more and more swarming the battlefield, overpowering the angels in mass if not strength.

“ _Continue fighting. If we cannot hold the line, we’ll retreat to the Fifth Ring and try to sneak around_ ,” Castiel said. “ _I did not want to resort to sneaking through Hell, but if that is what we must do, then we will do it_.”

Myrael’s grace hummed in reluctant acceptance.

When Castiel had first been assigned the mission of rescuing the Righteous Man from Hell, Michael had explained to him that Dean Winchester was his true vessel. It made sense, as the energy coming from deeper in Hell seemed similar to Castiel’s eldest brother. Perhaps less volatile, and a little warmer, but still the same wavelengths and frequencies. Castiel had been following the call of that soul since he’d first stepped into the edge of the First Ring.

He could feel the sharp edges of pain, knew that Dean Winchester was suffering torment no human should ever be subjected to. Castiel only hoped the angel garrison could get there in time.

Myrael screamed next to him, two demon swords coming through her back. Castiel could only sweep his sword in a wide arc, taking off as many heads as he could. He knelt, pressing a hand to her forehead to ease her passing. She would return to Heaven momentarily. 

Angered, Castiel felt his eyes grow hot. He knew they were glowing with power, and the intricate lines of his armor responded by lighting up, glowing like they had been before being suppressed by the essences of so much evil.

The nearest demons’ eyes widened.

The smart ones ran. The foolish ones tried to attack, and were blasted to pieces for their efforts. Castiel sincerely hoped that they would remain dead, that Hell didn’t work like Heaven did with regeneration.

He cut through more demons.

Myrael had been right. It seemed that there were now too many to count, and that the tide of demons was still growing. Castiel heard the screams of his dying brothers and sisters on all sides, felt the bite of a sword swipe that hadn’t been deflected in time. It was unbelievable, how many demons were swarming the battlefield. They climbed over their fellows’ dead bodies, mouths hanging open with delirious excitement.

Castiel’s grace pulsed again, disintegrating the nearest demons. For the first time in three days, he was beginning to feel the strain of constant fighting. His wings weren’t quite so snappish in their protection of his back, and his sword felt heavy. He knelt, sweeping his blade in a low arc, taking off several pairs of legs. When he made to straighten again, his legs felt weak and shaky.

Perhaps it was the constant fighting, and perhaps it was the fact that they were so far from the Host. Either way, the angels were weakening and falling, and Castiel’s eyes went wide as he realized that he was one of three remaining.

He dug down deep, scraping the very bottom of his well of grace. It was frightening, how quickly he’d had to dig into the very depths of his power. If there was anything on the other side of the Seventh Ring, Castiel wouldn’t be able to fight it. He’d have to resort to stealth.

One of his fellow angels screamed and fell. Castiel dug deeper, scraping up power faster. He knew he had a limited amount of time before he was the last angel alive.

Sure enough, all it took was a single blast of hellfire before the penultimate angel, Jasiel, exploded. There was a brief moment of stillness among the demons as they scanned the battlefield.

Their eyes came to rest on Castiel, and he felt the weight of a thousand gazes.

Castiel exploded.

His grace pulsed outward, sending shockwaves of pure energy. It disintegrated hundreds of demons at a time, their dying screams rising in the air like a haunted chorus. Castiel’s wings threw themselves outward, going wide, and he felt the strain of using so much power at once keenly. He’d nearly overdone it.

The wave of pure light and sound moved outward, battering against the edges of the Sixth Ring, obliterating the hordes of demons. It was Castiel’s last chance.

He fell to his knees when his grace had been expended, so weak he was practically human. When he raised his head, he was relieved to see that there were no more demons, dead or otherwise. Just a bloody, empty field.

Shakily, Castiel stood. He had no more grace, and he realized that getting _out_ might be just as hard as getting in. It seemed he would need to spend longer than he’d originally planned here.

The thought caused him no small amount of panic.

Still, he persisted toward the Seventh Ring, moving through empty wasteland. He wouldn’t allow the efforts of his fallen brothers and sisters to be in vain. They were counting on him now. The entirety of Heaven and Earth was counting on him. He needed to stop the Righteous Man from breaking the First Seal.

Castiel limped through the empty battlefield, the line of burns on his ankles throbbing and the cut on his left thigh aching. He was too weak to heal the injuries, and his sword felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. The glow of pure power had faded to nearly nothing in his blade, the lines of grace dimmed in his armor. If any demons came upon him, he wasn’t sure he would survive the encounter. His wings were weak, barely kept from dragging along the ground by dignity and spite alone.

Castiel felt relief flood him as he saw the boundary of the Seventh Ring. He quickened his pace as much as he was able, following the call of the human soul he’d come to save.

The wall dividing the Sixth and Seventh Rings of Hell was thicker than some of the others. Harder to break through. Castiel had to resort to cutting into it with his sword instead of simply blasting through with his grace.

When he did break through, though, he was met with silence.

No, not _complete_ silence. There was… there was something. But there was no panting of thousands of demons, no clanking of swords and armor, no roaring of hellfire. Just quiet. It seemed that the army in the Sixth Ring had been everything Hell had been able to throw at the angels of Heaven.

Castiel was profoundly grateful.

He glanced around, eyeing the demons in the distance. They hadn’t noticed him, most likely because of his quiet entrance and lack of grace. He probably looked like a human or something to them.

Stealthily, Castiel crept deeper into the Seventh Ring.

He could hear screams now, the sounds of human souls being subjected to intense torment. Something in his chest twisted, and Castiel scolded himself. He had been told many times before that he felt too much for an angel. Humans were not important. Getting attached to things led to angels Falling, like Lucifer.

Teeth gritted against the anger that threatened to rise at the broken screams, Castiel crept closer.

As he drew nearer to the very source of the agony, he frowned in confusion. There were… two souls. Two frequencies of agony, one much higher than the other. The screaming human was in pain, but the other one was set so deeply in agony that it had stopped crying out a long time ago.

Sudden cold dread flooded Castiel.

He quickened his pace as much as he dared, creeping up a steep incline of rock. The demons all around him seemed to have disappeared, as if they too were sickened by the intense pain coming from the direction Castiel was walking in. The angel had a feeling that he would find whatever he needed to at the top of this mountain.

Slowing to a crawl, Castiel crept up the last few feet. He heard screaming and broken begging. It sounded like one of the souls was being tortured, and that the other one was the torturer. That cold feeling settled deep in Castiel’s gut, and he prayed his assumption of what he was going to find was wrong.

Holding his breath, the angel ascended the last few feet and took in the scene before him.

There was indeed a soul on the rack, though it was not Dean Winchester’s. The soul on the rack belonged to Henry Hughes, a human who had tortured four of his own kind while he’d been alive. From scanning his soul, Castiel could see he had also raped and killed sixteen young men. He truly deserved to be on that rack, then.

But the soul cutting into him… Dean Winchester.

The First Seal had been broken.

The Righteous Man had shed blood in Hell.

Castiel had failed.

Dean Winchester was slicing layers of skin off the soul on the rack. He seemed completely content, absolutely at peace with the horrific things his hands were doing.

Castiel felt sick.

The prophetic brightness of the Righteous Man’s soul had been diminished to nearly nothing. Dean Winchester was nearly as evil and dark as a demon. His soul was layered over with blood and sin and agony.

Castiel felt intense anger flood through him as the shock and horror faded.

He couldn’t help but suddenly hate the human soul in front of him. How could he give in? How could he be so selfish and weak? How could he break the First Seal when there was so much on the line? It had all come down to one soul, and he had failed.

That anger, though, was unfounded. How could _Castiel_ have expected a single human to survive forty years of torment at the hands of Hell’s most talented torturer? How could Castiel have expected Dean Winchester to hold out against what he must have thought was eternal agony?

That anger turned inward, toward himself. It was also directed, for the first time (but certainly not the last) toward Heaven itself. This was their doing. They never should have left Dean in Hell for forty years in the first place.

The anger came in a wave, and then ebbed away just as fast as it had come. Castiel sagged a little, feeling the exhaustion of days of fighting.

He needed to get back to Heaven. They needed to strategize, and they needed to prepare for war. Lucifer was going to rise, if they didn’t stop the breaking of the other Seals. Castiel needed to find somewhere to hide and recuperate.

He turned to go, then paused.

He couldn’t stop himself from looking back, from eyeing the two human souls. It he took Dean Winchester with him, it would take longer to get out of Hell. Longer to regain his grace. There was no point, really, now that the First Seal had been broken and the mission had been failed.

But…

But Castiel couldn’t just leave him. He couldn’t just condemn Dean Winchester to an eternity of pain and torment, whether it was being inflicted or he was the inflictor. Besides, perhaps Dean Winchester could help them stop the breaking of the other Seals. Father knew Heaven had heard enough about the infamous Winchester brothers.

Mind made up, Castiel stepped onto the rocky peak of the little mountain he’d ascended.

The Righteous Man jammed his knife into the heart of the soul on the rack, sending him away instantly. Henry Hughes died with a horrible scream, his soul moving on to another part of Hell. Castiel and Dean Winchester were alone.

The angel watched as the human soul turned slowly. He saw the horrifically satisfied smile melt off his bloodstained face, saw the moment Dean Winchester realized what he was, realized that it was an angel and not a demon that stood before him.

The Righteous Man fell to his knees.

“ _Dean Winchester_ ,” Castiel said, “ _My name is Castiel. I am an Angel of the Lord_.”

He could feel Dean’s fear in the face of a being pulsing with the power of Heaven, could feel his agony and terror. “ _Pain?_ ” the soul seemed to ask. “ _Tormentor?_ ”

“ _No, little one_ ,” Castiel said. He couldn’t help the gentility in his tone, or the fact that he was speaking to Dean like he was a fledgling. “ _I have not come to hurt you. I am here to rescue you from Hell_.”

“ _No more pain?_ ” the soul questioned. It didn’t seem to be actively thinking the words, just feeling the emotions. “ _Please, no more_.”

“ _No more, small one_ ,” Castiel promised, something in his chest breaking. “ _You must come with me. We need to leave before your torturer returns_.”

He held out his hand, and he saw the hesitation there. If he was reading the lines and cracks of the soul right, he could guess that Dean Winchester had broken a long time ago. He’d been mindlessly torturing souls for a little less than ten years, doing everything he could to avoid more pain. It was all he’d known for a long time. It made sense that he was afraid of halting, afraid of changing what he was doing and possibly risking intense agony again.

Still, Dean Winchester was nothing if not a faithful man.

The Righteous Man hesitated, then dropped his blade. He seemed too afraid of Castiel to grab his hand, though, so the angel reached out and put his hand on the human soul’s left shoulder.

There was a flash, a pulse of _something_ , and Castiel felt the warm curl of the human soul underneath all that blood and agony. And what a soul it was. Bright, shining, beautiful. _I made the right choice, saving him. Now I need to make sure we both get out of here alive_.

Castiel raised Dean up off the ground and gave him a kind smile. “Come, Dean Winchester. It’s time for you to go home.”

**Dean**

The angel was warm.

Dean had found, throughout his stay here, that many human conceptions of Hell were wrong. For one, there wasn’t random fire everywhere. Hell was a lot of red rock and empty, swirling darkness. Not a whole bunch of fire. Just dim smoke.

It was freezing cold, too. Human mythology described Hell as a pit of fire and heat and pain, and while the pain was accurate, the heat was not. It was _freezing_ down here most of the time.

The angel was warm.

The angel — _Castiel_ — was warm. He’d touched Dean, put a hand on his shoulder, and it hadn’t hurt. Well, everything hurt just a _little_ , but the angel’s hand had been warm and light. His _intention_ hadn’t been to hurt Dean, which the human supposed was all that mattered.

He followed Castiel away from the rack. He followed him through the landscapes of Hell, watched as the angel brandished his sword at a demon who came too close. The demon didn’t seem to notice them, too focused on finding its next meal.

Dean didn’t really know how he was walking along with the angel, or even standing straight at all. His head was smashed in at the back and he was missing a foot, for God’s sake! He knew, in the back of his mind, that the injuries Alastair had given him wouldn’t have been survivable on Earth. Of course, Hell was very, very far from Earth.

So Dean walked. He followed Castiel through what must have been the Seventh Ring of Hell, followed him to a large barrier and a little hole that went through it. He followed the angel across the red, rocky, barren landscape that had been the backdrop of Dean’s ‘life’ for what felt like a lifetime.

They came to a stop near a cave.

“ _My grace is depleted. I cannot get us out of here without it. We’ll need a place to hide until I’m back to being fully powered_ ,” the angel explained. His ‘voice’ was low and deep, gravelly in a way that made Dean shiver. He could hear the pure energy behind those words when they echoed in his head.

He followed the angel into the cave wordlessly. 

Inside, a demon laid asleep on the ground. Dean watched with wide eyes as the angel stepped forward, cleaving the head from the demon’s neck with a single expert swipe of its sword. Without a word, Castiel watched the demon’s body disintegrate into ashes. “Good. Running water,” the angel muttered, focus shifting.

Dean blinked at the river of running water in the back of the cave, wondering where they were in Hell. He watched as the angel pulled his sword off, laid it against the cave wall, and pulled out a dagger.

Dean moved deeper into the cave to get farther away from the entrance, eyes wide as he watched Castiel begin to carve strange symbols into the rock of the mouth of the cave.

“ _I_ _’m shielding the entrance of the cave from demonic eyes. It should work against lesser demons. If your torturer comes looking for you, though, we may have a problem_ ,” the angel said, and it sounded as if he was explaining. Dean wondered if he could read minds. The angel looked up and gave him a gentle smile that had something warm curling in Dean’s stomach. “ _No, little one, I can’t read minds. I can read emotions and intentions, though, and your mind is in a very fragile state. Your mental barriers are down_.”

Dean wondered what _that_ meant.

He stayed where he was, watching Castiel draw intricate symbols that seemed somehow familiar and foreign at the same time. When the angel had finished, he stood and turned to the human soul hovering behind him. 

“ _You can sit_.”

Dean’s knees promptly gave out.

He sat down hard on the rocky ground, a soft whimper emerging from his throat as his injuries were jolted. The high whine of pain in his head grew to a shrieking crescendo, then died down again when nothing else happened.

Castiel sighed, coming to kneel in front of him.

“ _I realize that I cannot release you on Earth like this. Your mind will fracture and your body with fail you. I will need to take time to rebuild you. I suppose that will prolong our stay here_.” The angel seemed contemplative. “ _I would estimate a week, at the most. I will need time to heal myself as well_ _._ ”

Dean noticed, for the first time, the burns on the angel’s legs and arms. He had a cut on one thigh, and his face looked ragged and weary. His wings, great and arching behind him, looked tired and worn.

Instinctively, Dean reached out to touch the wings. They looked soft and beautiful, and Dean would have liked to bury his face in them. They snapped out of his reach, though, and the low, rumbling growl that emerged from Castiel’s throat had Dean cowering in fear.

The growling stopped and there was a soft sigh. “ _I won’t hurt you, Dean Winchester. I understand that you are curious and unable to control your actions, but I ask that you leave my wings alone_.”

That made Dean sad. He knew, distantly, that the angel probably didn’t want to get them dirty. Dean hated the idea of being so tainted he couldn’t even _touch_ the pretty wings. He wished, for the millionth time, that he wasn’t so fucked up and broken and wrong. Maybe he’d be able to pet the shiny feathers if he hadn’t been so weak and selfish all those years ago.

He was sure that the reason he couldn’t touch them was because he’d broken underneath Alastair’s hand. Because he’d tortured another human soul. He was tainted and wrong, fucked up and ruined, and there was no way-

“ _It seems I need to fix some facets of your mind as well_ ,” the angel mused, breaking Dean’s tide of thought. “ _That kind of self-destructive emotion will not do_.”

Dean frowned, wondering what that meant. All of this ‘fixing’ and ‘escaping’ and everything was beginning to hurt his head, causing the headache of a smashed-in skull to ratchet up a few notches.

He blinked slowly at the angel in front of him, wishing he understood what was going on.

Castiel sighed again. “ _Come here. I think I can heal your more life-threatening injuries for right now, but I’ll need a period of time to recharge again_.”

Dean shuffled forward a little, wincing at the agony that movement prompted. He came to a halt a few feet in front of the angel, afraid of sitting any closer lest Castiel hurt him or something.

The angel didn’t seem inclined to violence, however. He raised a hand, resting it lightly on Dean’s right leg. He gently pulled until Dean’s leg had straightened, the bloody stump of his ankle resting on the angel’s lap.

Castiel frowned. Dean could feel his disgust and faint horror more than he could hear it, could feel the angel’s morbid curiosity as to _why_ Alastair had cut off his foot.

Dean tried to project his thoughts as an explanation, thinking about the time he’d tried to turn away from the rack a few years ago and Alastair had cut his foot slowly into pieces as punishment.

Castiel winced. “ _I can hear you, little one. Stop thinking so loud. I… I’m sorry that happened to you_ _._ ” He sounded almost surprised, as if he wasn’t used to feeling remorse or sympathy. Dean felt a wash of embarrassment and shame and tried to blank out his mind, not wanting to cause the angel any discomfort. “ _Don’t worry, Dean. You’re not causing me any pain. It_ _’_ _s just that I can sense your thoughts just fine as it is_.”

Dean ducked his head. He thought that his cheeks might flush if he’d been in a normal body. As it was, this one was broken and burnt. Useless.

Just like the soul that inhabited it.

Dean clenched his hands into fists, ignoring his broken wrist, which made his left hand curl strangely. He felt more shame flood through him. He deserved whatever pain he was feeling. He’d done things that had surely earned him a ticket right back here, when he eventually died for good.

“ _Shh_ ,” the angel soothed, resting a hand on the bloody stump of Dean’s leg. “ _Be kind to yourself, little one. You’ve endured far more than most beings ever could_.”

With that, his hand started glowing.

Dean didn’t feel it at first. It was like a slow numbing effect, the agony pulsing from his leg slowly becoming less and less potent. When he finally noticed, his eyes flew wide and he stared at the place where Castiel’s hand was resting on his leg. 

The angel’s eyes were glowing lightly. It should have been terrifying, but for some reason, the glow was comforting. Dean felt himself relaxing, giving himself over to the being piecing his body back together one molecule at a time.

The pain from his ankle almost completely numbed out, and Dean sobbed with relief.

Castiel used his other hand to steady him as Dean fell forward, muscles weak. He stayed where he was for a moment, enjoying the numb feeling of his leg and the hand on his shoulder, placed right over where the angel had first touched him. Almost as an afterthought, Dean looked at where Castiel’s hand met his shoulder, and he jolted in surprise.

The shirt Dean had been wearing had come off a long time ago. So had his pants. He was wearing tattered shorts and not much else, and his entire torso was bare. The angel’s hand had left a fucking _mark_ on his skin, a brand of a handprint that cupped the muscle of his upper shoulder.

“ _My apologies_ ,” Castiel murmured in his mind, frowning at the mark. “ _I hadn’t realized I’d marked you like that. Perhaps that is why our communication is so acute_.”

Dean didn’t really understand that, but he figured it didn’t matter that much. What was one more mark on his body? He could barely see his skin underneath the bruises, burns, and cuts anyway.

Castiel didn’t seem pleased by that thought, but the angel didn’t say anything. Instead, his eyes merely glowed a little brighter.

Little pinpricks of feeling were beginning to start in the ankle, and Dean blinked down at where his foot had been, frowning a little as the pinpricks started to become uncomfortable.

“ _This may hurt. I don’t have enough power to make sure it is completely painless_ ,” Castiel warned. “ _Regrowing parts of your body is harder than simply healing wounds. I will be very drained after this. You need to remain as quiet as you can. Is that a possibility, or do you need help?_ ”

At the idea of being gagged again, Dean rapidly shook his head. Whatever this angel was going to do to him couldn’t possibly be as bad as what Alastair had done in the past. He’d be fine.

He set his jaw as the pain started up again, the pinpricks of heat becoming more intense. It was starting to hurt. Dean closed his eyes, uninterested in watching his foot reform. That was a little too intense, even for him.

Castiel shifted slightly in front of him, and the hand on Dean’s shoulder disappeared. A peek at the angel told the human that he had steadied himself with his other hand, his eyes also closed. Dean remembered what he’d said about being drained. He hadn’t really thought of how much power the angel would be exerting in trying to heal him. How much faster would Castiel have been able to escape Hell if he hadn’t had to heal Dean?

The gentle humming of power from the angel in front of him had grown, though it wasn’t simply a hum anymore. There was a pulse, a sort of ragged drumbeat, that reminded Dean of the wavering of a rolling coin right before it toppled. He clamped down on a scream as the pain in his leg grew to a crescendo, the pinpricks becoming sharp stabs of agony.

Castiel grunted with effort, the glow of his hand growing so bright Dean could see it through the squeeze of his closed eyelids. He turned his head away, fighting the urge to look and see, to visually verify that the foot he could now _feel_ was actually there.

The pain rose and rose, and part of Dean wondered if he wasn’t going to make it.

Then it was gone.

Castiel slumped to the ground, the plates of his armor clanking softly as he fell to the rocky dirt. Dean blinked in shock, the sharp smell of ozone pricking at his senses, his eyes watery with involuntary tears of pain.

Slowly, slowly, the human dropped his eyes down to his right ankle. Attached to his leg was a perfect human foot, the opposite of the one on Dean’s left leg. The angel really _had_ healed him.

Gratitude, enormous in its intensity, flooded Dean. He wanted to get up and dance, wanted to fall to his knees and thank the angel for everything. Wanted to promise him the world in return for the favor he had done Dean.

He didn’t.

He stood slowly, shakily, fighting past the pain that movement produced. He ignored the agony screaming from different parts of his body, staring in amazement as his toes disappeared in the fine layer of dirt over the rock. He had two feet again. His ankle didn’t ache like hellfire. It was just… there.

Smiling through tears that didn’t seem to be from pain anymore, Dean fell to his knees next to the unconscious angel and thanked him in his mind, because his voice was still ruined and wouldn’t work. 

After he’d thoroughly made his gratitude clear, Dean arranged the angel until it looked like he was lying more comfortably on his stomach. Dean didn’t touch his wings. In fact, he was careful to keep far away from them. There was no way he was going to repay Castiel for fixing him by doing the one thing the angel had asked him not to do.

Dean _did_ unlatch the clasps on the cloak that had been attached to the angel’s upper shoulders, draping the cape across him like a blanket in the only form of comfort he knew how to offer.

The angel, like Dean, seemed to be wearing some sort of body that didn’t really hide the essence of his being all the way. Dean’s skin, when it hadn’t been covered in scars and blood, had seemed faintly translucent and had even glowed a little in the dark. Castiel’s body, while human-looking, seemed paper-thin and barely concealed the mass of power the angel so clearly had. The human form was male and had dark hair and blue, blue eyes, brighter than any human being’s had any right to be. Dean distantly thought that the human was kind of handsome.

He was broken from his thoughts by the sound of voices. Dean tensed, eyes flicking around for the nearest weapon. He came upon the dagger Castiel had thrown aside, and he grabbed that, not wanting to touch the large sword still laid against the wall.

The voices were clicking and hissing, speaking in a twisting language Dean didn’t understand, but that sounded very familiar. He gripped the knife tight to himself, no small amount of panic running through him.

_Cas said it was warded, he said the demons wouldn’t even see it._

_He also said that if Alastair came looking for me, it would be a problem._

Dean held the knife up a little more, hand shaking badly. He didn’t need to know what the demons were saying to know they were coming closer, their faint voices now louder and easier to make out. Dean could hear individual pauses and sentences, though he still couldn’t make sense of anything except two words:

_Homo sanctus._ Somehow, the Old Latin computed in the human’s brain.

_Righteous Man._

Heart in his throat, Dean got to his feet. The cave wasn’t too tall, and if Dean jumped, he would be able to touch the ceiling easily. He felt unsteady standing so straight and tall, though. He’d spent most of the last ten years cowering, and now…

Now that Dean knew what it was to not feel pain, to step away from the horrors of the rack, he knew there was no way he was going back to it. Not willingly, at least. Not alive, either.

Dean slowly, quietly turned the blade in his hand. Instead of facing the entrance of the cave and the possible attackers, the tip brushed against the soft skin above his heartbeat. A threat. A promise.

The demon’s voices grew to their loudest, and it sounded like they were right outside the cave. Dean breathed softly, his pupils dilated in the dim lighting, his chest aching with the need for air.

He could hear them say it again, those two words. _Homo sanctus_. Dean held his breath.

The demons spoke a little more, clicking and spitting and hissing. Then they seemed to move away, though, their voices getting softer. Dean could tell they were still talking animatedly, but he couldn’t make out individual words or noises anymore. Just the occasional high-frequency hiss.

Dean sagged in relief, going to sit next to Castiel’s still-sleeping body. He placed the knife in the dirt beside him, in reach and ready for whatever came through the entrance of the cave. Even Alastair himself.

As the last echoes the demon’s voices faded, Dean relaxed a little. The quiet hum of power next to him served to make him feel almost _safe_ , which was ridiculous, considering they were in Hell.

Distantly, Dean wondered what was next. Was Castiel going to make all the pain go away? Was he going to want to leave when he woke? Come to think of it, how _were_ they going to get out?

Bringing his knees to his chest as slowly and painlessly as he could, Dean wrapped broken arms around bruised, folded legs and rested his head on the tops of his knees. He figured he just had to wait until the angel woke. That wasn’t hard. It was the least he could do.

Resting his lower back against the very back of the cave, mere feet from the sleeping angel, Dean settled in to wait.

**Castiel**

Castiel found Dean asleep, curled against the back of the cave wall, when he woke.

The angel winced as he sat up, his head pounding. He’d nearly overdone it with grace again. He’d forgotten how complex a human foot was. 

Dean Winchester seemed to be resting semi-peacefully, though, so that was really all that mattered. Castiel felt something like fondness flicker through him, and then he frowned.

That was wrong. Castiel _knew_ he felt more emotions than was proper for an angel, knew that it was discouraged in Heaven. If he wasn’t such a good fighter, he would probably be an outcast. He got attached to things, found humans amusing, felt remorse and sadness and pain when he shouldn’t. He’d learned over the years, of course, to forget about what he’d seen in the endless campaigns against Hell. To forget about the effects of war, about the sufferings of humans, if only for his own sanity.

Castiel wondered if, in time, he would forget about Dean too. For some reason, he didn’t think so.

The handprint he’d left on the young man’s shoulder stood out starkly against the dark bruises. Castiel had the sense to feel slightly guilty, wondering if he’d hurt Dean after he’d promised not to. It didn’t seem that way; Dean seemed to have placed some modicum of trust in him. Of course, that could just be because Castiel was probably the first person in decades to not try to hurt him.

Castiel rubbed his face with his hands, his limbs feeling weak and shaky. He didn’t think he’d so thoroughly drained his grace since the First War. He felt almost sick, and the cold of Hell was causing goosebumps to rise on his vessel’s skin.

Wrapping his wings around himself, Castiel glanced at Dean Winchester again. When he saw that the soul was still resting, he extended one of his wings and began grooming it, combing firm fingers through the feathers to rake out dirt and dust. There was a lot. Hell was unbelievably smoky and dusty, so Castiel wasn’t surprised to see large amounts of grit coming out through his fingers. Tightening his jaw, he continued.

Castiel felt a stray feather, and he clenched his teeth. Pinching his fingers around the loose feather, he yanked. The pain was sharp and clean, a brief flash that made Castiel’s eyes water. The black feather fell to the ground.

The angel continued to groom his own wings, sort of half-wishing he had one of his brothers or sisters here to help him. He thought back to his fellow angels, wondering if they were alright. Hopefully, they trusted in his own ability to protect himself. He knew that the chance of a rescue mission was low, but it was still a possibility. Castiel definitely didn’t want that. Demons didn’t have the weapons to actually send an angel away forever, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t figure it out. If they were smart, they’d pick up the angel blades left behind on battlefields and use those.

Castiel prayed the demons never got that smart. At least, never got organized enough to share angel-killing methods with each other.

The angel general winced as he pulled another feather free, then straightened a bent one right after. The pulled feather joined the other, in what was becoming a pile.

Patiently, Castiel groomed through as much of his wing as he could reach. He still had no access to his back, near his shoulder blades, but that would have to be remedied when he got back to Heaven.

Castiel glanced down to put another loose feather in the pile he’d started, then blinked in surprise at the barren dirt that greeted him.

He turned, eyes wide, and found Dean Winchester awake, rubbing the feathers against his face with a happy smile spreading across his cracked and bleeding lips.

Castiel reached out slowly, gently taking the feathers from the human’s grasp. As he did so, he healed the broken jaw and replaced the lost teeth of the human’s skull, his head pounding with the effort.

Dean’s soul pulsed sadness when the feathers were taken from him. “ _Sorry_ ,” it seemed to say. “ _Wanted to touch. Sorry. No pain, please? No pain. Sorry. Sorry_.” Dean curled into himself a little.

“ _No pain, little one_ ,” Castiel promised. He looked down at the feathers he’d taken from the human, feeling a wash of guilt. They really weren’t any loss to him; they’d already been pulled out. It would be no trouble for him if he let Dean have them. It was just… He didn’t _like_ the idea of the human being in possession of the feathers. It felt… strange. Intimate, if he was being honest.

Among angels, stray feathers were just things to be thrown out, like clothes that had become too small. It seemed, however, that Dean found Castiel’s wings to be fascinating. He was attracted to them in some way, and it was as unsettling as it was amusing and endearing.

Castiel frowned at the human soul still cowering beside him, eyes narrowing at the caked-on blood and dirt. That wouldn’t do. Even if he couldn’t heal Dean, he could at least make him feel better.

He shifted his legs to stand, then blinked at the fabric that had been draped over them. A quick glance to the clasps on his shoulders revealed that Dean had unclipped the cloak on his back and laid it over him like a blanket.

That same unwanted fondness flooded through Castiel, and the angel sighed. “ _Come here, little one_ _._ ”

Dean uncurled a little, his movements stiff with pain. Castiel knew that most of his body was still broken, and he wished he had the grace to simply heal the soul’s wounds.

He didn’t though. This was the next best thing. 

Castiel stripped off his armor, taking a second to listen for any demons outside the cave. When he heard nothing, he finished pulling off everything but the thin leather pads that lay beneath his armor and the clothes he had underneath.

He turned and found Dean standing quietly beside him, his essence pulsing out _unsure_ and _questioning_ and _scared_.

Castiel stuck his hand in the river running in the back of the cave, unsurprised to find it freezing cold. Wincing, he used a little of his grace to warm the water, figuring that the drain of power was small enough that he could get away with it. It still made his head ache, but he hoped it would be worth it.

“ _Get in. We need to at least make sure we get some of that blood off of you_ ,” Castiel said, gesturing to the river. He watched the hesitation on Dean’s face, the fear that still showed. His face was easier to read now that Castiel had fixed his jaw, but it would still need reconstructing. The entire body would, the angel supposed.

He gestured to the water again, surprised at how deep his patience went. He understood that Dean was scared. That was fine. Castiel would wait all day if that’s what it took.

Thankfully, the soul decided to take the leap of faith. It stepped forward, flinched at the water, then relaxed at the warmth. Castiel watched with faint amusement twisting his mouth as Dean waded into the shallow little stream, kneeling down to immerse himself up his neck.

The soft, contented noise Dean made could have been called a purr. Castiel liked that terminology.

Dean ducked his head under the water for a moment, then came back up. His face split into a smile, and though his nose was still broken and there was a gash in his hairline and his cheekbone still looked dented, Castiel couldn’t help but think that he was beautiful. Perhaps it was the lines of bright soul shining through the cracks, or perhaps it was just the physical beauty of Dean Winchester. Castiel would never know.

He gave a small smile back, watching with amusement as the human soul ducked under the water again gleefully.

Yes, the expenditure of grace to warm the river was worth it.

Castiel knew that Dean wasn’t really trying to do anything except enjoy himself, a playful part of his soul emerging. He also saw the blood and grime being washed away by the gentle flow of the river. Some of the darkness seemed to be fading from around Dean’s soul, as if the act of being taken care of and allowed to play was lightening the burden his soul had been carrying for four decades. It made Castiel happy to know that he was helping Dean Winchester’s soul heal.

Soon, Dean seemed to be clean. It was just in time, too, because Castiel’s grace was beginning to redline again. He shifted slightly, and the soul tentatively began to emerge from the water.

He shivered hard once out of it, and Castiel remembered how cold it was in Hell. As he released his grace’s hold on the water, he reached over and grabbed his discarded cloak, shaking the dust and dirt off of it as he reached over and draped it over Dean’s shoulders. 

The soul blinked up at him, awe and gratitude on its face. Castiel gave Dean a gentle smile, feeling the corners of his vessel’s eyes crinkle with affection.

“ _Pretty_ ,” Dean’s soul seemed to think. “ _Pretty angel. Blue, blue, blue. Pretty blue eyes_.”

Castiel chuckled. “ _Thank you for the compliment. You have pretty green eyes_ _._ ”

He blinked, because where had _that_ come from? Yes, Dean’s eyes were pleasing in comparison to the color of other humans’ irises, but why had Castiel thought he needed to _say_ it?

Dean beamed at him, so it was all worth it anyway.

The soul limped over to where they’d been laying before and plopped down, evidently exhausted. Castiel watched with faint fondness twisting his lips as Dean curled into a stiff ball and pulled the cloak around himself, creating a little nest of blankets.

Who knew humans could be adorable?

Castiel sat down beside the human soul, content to simply keep watch and allow his grace to recharge. 

While he sat, listening to Dean’s soft breaths even out, he wondered at the warm feelings in his chest. They didn’t feel inherently _bad_ , just different. Castiel didn’t feel weaker or more evil for taking a liking to Dean, though he knew angels weren’t supposed to get attached to humans. That was how they Fell.

Castiel wondered if Falling was so bad, if these feelings stuck around all the time.

He quickly shut that train of thought down, because it was leading to dangerous territory he didn’t really want to explore right now. Instead, he turned back to the sleeping soul beside him and felt a small smile curl his lips against his best attempts to stop it.

_Rest well, Dean Winchester_.

Castiel curled up a little way’s away, wings tucked tight around him, and joined the human soul in slumber.

When Castiel woke up again, it was to Dean blinking over him, wide green eyes only slightly undermined in beauty by the burst blood vessel in one of them.

“ _Time for another healing session, I think_ ,” Castiel murmured, more to himself than to Dean. The soul heard it anyway, tilting its head to the side curiously.

Instead of explaining, Castiel sat up. He was feeling less weak and shaky than before, which was good. His grace had replenished a good amount, so it seemed the copious amounts of rest were beneficial.

Turning to Dean, Castiel eyed the soul’s body critically.

There were many, many injuries for him to find, but the one that stood out the most was the deep crack in the back of the human’s skull. Wincing at the pain that the injury must be causing, Castiel reached behind Dean and gently laid his fingers on either side of the wound.

The human flinched, surprised. His eyes went _wide_ when he felt the inevitable numbness of healing, though, and Castiel saw the amazement and pure gratitude there.

“ _Grateful_ ,” Dean’s soul murmured, and it was nearly whispering. “ _Grateful. Thank you, Cas. Grateful_.”

Castiel smiled gently. “ _You’re welcome, Dean_.” He ignored the flutter in his chest at the shortened version of his name. _Cas_.

He focused on knitting the bone back together, on healing the damage that had been done to the brain. Some of the fog in those broken green eyes cleared up, and Dean blinked.

He opened his mouth, trying to speak, and Castiel understood. Speech hadn’t been possible for him before because of the injury that had damaged his head. Now it was, and the soul was trying to speak physically.

Castiel gently moved his hands down to Dean’s throat, finding and healing each vocal chord meticulously.

“Th-Than-Than-“ Dean broke off, coughing deeply, and Castiel heard the whine of pain that followed the movement. “Thank… Thank. Thank.”

He kept saying that one word, the only one he could say, and Castiel took pity on him. “You’re welcome, Dean.” His own voice sounded the same out loud as it did in his head, though Dean’s was lower and smoother than the angel had anticipated. It was pleasing to listen to.

Dean looked happy with himself. He settled back, leaning into the steadying touch Castiel had on his lower back. The angel applied gentle pressure, trying to find the places where the spine was cracked, and managed it within a few seconds.

All the healing was beginning to take its toll on Castiel, who was barely at ten percent ‘charge’, as Gabriel liked to call it sometimes. He estimated only a few more injuries could be fixed before he’d need to rest again.

_Ribcage next_.

Castiel laid Dean down on the dirt floor of the cave, ignoring the curious noise the human made. Gently, he ran his fingertips over the warped surface of Dean’s chest, applying light pressure to find all the cracks and dislocations.

Satisfied that he’d found everything, Castiel closed his eyes and allowed his grace to invade Dean’s chest and torso.

He found the crushed ribcage, along with the pierced liver and the internal bleeding. Castiel fixed all of that, wincing as a headache began behind his eyes and started to push outward toward his temples.

He knitted bones back together, horrified at the extent of the damage done to some of the little vertebrae and the floating ribs. Dean Winchester would not have survived a second on Earth had Castiel not taken the time to rebuild him.

The angel breathed softly, squeezing his eyes shut against the onslaught of pain now building in his temples. Dean’s chest was slowly reforming beneath his fingertips. He just needed to knit a few more bones back together.

Carefully locating the remaining injured bones of Dean’s ribcage, Castiel’s grace pushed them back into their correct form, rejuvenating the proteins and minerals of the bones and encouraging them to rejoin. Within the span of a few seconds, the bones were reformed, neat and healthy as they had been before Hell.

Castiel let his hand fall away from Dean’s torso, exhausted. He fell back on his ass instead of on his heels, his muscles feeling shaky and weak for the second time in as many days. It was getting annoying to have to fight through redlining grace, but he had no choice. It wasn’t like he was just going to _leave_ Dean, especially in his injured state. He’d invested too much grace in the human already, anyway.

At least, that was what Castiel told himself.

He opened his eyes, tracking them to Dean’s face, and was shocked to see tears streaming from those bruised green eyes.

“Dean?” Castiel asked, voice sounding softly in the cave. “Are you alright?”

Dean opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, obviously too choked up to struggle with words. Instead, he reached down and grabbed Castiel’s right hand, startling the angel. Castiel watched as Dean brought his hand up to rest against the human’s chest, his fingertips splaying across the expanse of bruised, burnt skin.

Dean took a deep breath, his muscles flexing as he did so. The movement was soft and smooth, and Castiel only understood what was happening when Dean looked up at him with tears in his eyes and a small smile twisting his mouth. “ _Grateful_ ,” his soul whispered. “ _Breathe again. No pain. Grateful_.”

Castiel gave Dean a kind smile. He had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to speak either, if he tried. His throat was tight for some reason, his eyes hot with something other than rage for the first time Castiel could ever remember. Something happier and wilder and warmer than the angel dared to explore. “ _You’re welcome, Dean. I’m glad you can breathe again_.”

The human beamed at him, those green eyes shining out from his ruined face. Castiel chuckled softly, fondness sweeping through him like a wave.

As Gabriel liked to say, ‘Fuck everyone’. Castiel didn’t particularly care about what the other angels would say if they knew how attached he was to this human right now. Dean was precious, and there was nothing anyone could say that would change Castiel’s mind. So what if there was danger in getting attached? Castiel was fairly sure he would risk danger if it meant being allowed to see the pure joy in the human soul’s eyes when he could breathe without pain again.

As much as he would love the chance to see more of Dean’s joy as he was healed, Castiel was exhausted. He needed rest. He knew Dean could tell. The human began to unwrap the cloak from around his shoulders, rising unsteadily to his feet to go drape it over Castiel’s lap.

“Sleep,” Dean rasped, voice soft in the dimness of the cave. “Sleep.” He looked down at Castiel from where he was standing over him, looking him in his wide blue eyes. “Sleep… angel. Angel.”

He gave Castiel a little smile, evidently proud of himself for saying not one, but two new words. The angel himself was amazed, awed by the tenacity and kindness this little being had showed by simply uttering two words.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean gave him another grin, then sat down next to him. Confidently, the human grabbed the dagger Castiel had dropped, putting it up and pointing it at the entrance of the cave before glancing back at Castiel. The soul was showing Castiel he would be protected if he fell asleep.

Another wave of fondness, so acute it nearly ached this time, rushed over Castiel. The angel gave Dean a grateful smile, then laid back against the dirt.

He fell asleep soon after.

**Dean**

Dean took experimental breaths over the next few hours, delighted to find that his lungs didn’t feel like they were grinding against broken glass when he did so. It didn’t _hurt_ to breathe. It was incredible. The angel sleeping beside him was incredible.

Dean practiced words softly, trying to string together sentences again. It was hard. His mouth seemed to remember the words, he just had to fight a few times to get them out. It had been many, many years since he had last spoken.

The angel had seemed pleased when Dean had called him ‘Cas’ earlier, so Dean figured that was a good idea. ‘Cas’ was easier than the angel’s longer, more complex name. Especially now, when it was so hard for Dean to speak at all.

He tried new words. The very first one, after _Thank_ and _Sleep_ and _Angel_ , was _Sammy_.

“S-Sam,” Dean managed to say, trying to get his mouth to move the correct way. “Sam… me. Sammy. Sammy. Sammy!” He blinked, excited, and almost glanced around to see if Sam had heard it.

Nothing. Right.

Disappointed but not disheartened, Dean tried other things. ‘Missed you’ and ‘how are you’ and ‘what day is it’. ‘Rescuer’ and ‘Heaven’ made it in there too. Dean was still practicing responding to imaginary questions when the angel woke up.

Castiel sat up, groaning softly, rubbing at his temple. He squinted at Dean for a moment, the human blinking back at him.

“Alright, little one,” Castiel said, voice a little louder than Dean’s whisper. They still had to be quiet so they didn’t alert demons accidentally, “we have two options. I could heal some of your less life-threatening and painful injuries, or I could fix what’s going on in your head.” He sighed, looking at Dean with narrowed blue eyes. “As adorable as you are, I have a feeling this isn’t how you act normally. I’m fairly sure it has something to do with the trauma you’ve experienced. Your mind is reverting to a simpler state to handle things like pain and trauma better.”

Dean blinked. That sounded complicated. He tilted his head to the side.

Castiel narrowed his eyes at the human, squinting a lot now. Dean squinted right back, because it seemed funny and the right thing to do. At Castiel’s faint smile, the human beamed.

Castiel looked a little sad, though, when he reached out and put his fingers on Dean’s forehead. The human closed his eyes and leaned into the touch a little, enjoying the warmth of skin on his own. 

Instead of the calming, soothing numbness that usually spread when his wounds were healed, Dean felt a flash of hot, intense pain. He yelped, scrambling backward in surprise, head throbbing like his skull had just been split open. Again. In a split second, everything came into startling focus.

“What the fuck, man?” Dean demanded, staring up at the angel a few feet away from him. When Castiel moved, Dean did too, jumping to his feet. Somehow, he was holding the dagger in his hand. He leveled it at the angel now, chest heaving, eyes flicking around the cave wildly. “What did you do?”

“I disabled the protective mechanism your brain raised,” Castiel explained patiently. “It reverted you to a simpler way of thinking, more emotional and instinctual than analytical.”

“Why?” Dean asked, baring his teeth in warning when the angel shifted. 

Castiel put his hands up in a non-threatening gesture. “I didn’t think you’d appreciate being stuck in a childish state. There was no reason for it, anyway. Your mind can handle the pain now.”

Dean blinked, realizing that yeah, his body felt fine. Weak, sure. There were still bruises and burns everywhere, and his head was aching like a motherfucker, but it wasn’t the constant pulse of agony he’d grown so used to. The pain that he’d moved through mechanically, like a robot.

“How much did you do?” Dean asked warily.

“I healed your mind, took away some of the more traumatic memories,” Castiel explained. He looked exhausted, and Dean remembered how drained he’d been all those times he’d healed him before. “I also healed your cheekbone and the ruined cornea in your left eye, among other things. The injuries you have now are painful, but survivable.”

Dean relaxed ever-so-slightly, watching the angel lay himself down on the dirt floor of the cave. “You goin’ to sleep?” Dean checked.

“I am. It might take a while,” Castiel replied. He yawned. “The human brain is very… very… complex.”

Dean waited, listening for any more, and when there was silence, he knew that the angel had fallen asleep.

Muscles loosening, Dean knelt slowly on the cave floor. He glanced around, taking in his surroundings with sharp clarity for the first time. The cave was large, about the size of a motel room. It could fit Baby inside it easy, if some of the stalag-whatevers were taken out. The floor was some sort of red dirt, and there was a river in the back of the cave.

Dean blinked at the river, remembering a vague memory of splashing around in warm, pleasant water. He remembered the crinkle of amused blue eyes, the ruffle of black feathers. Castiel had been there.

Dean wondered how long they’d actually been in this cave. It didn’t feel like very long. Of course, his memory was hazy at best when it came to remembering what had happened so far. All he knew was that he’d been torturing a soul, and then he’d turned and _seen_ something incredibly bright, seen Castiel-Angel-of-the-Lord standing behind him. He’d known Castiel wasn’t a demon. Somehow, he’d known, and he’d trusted the angel immediately.

Dean wondered why that hadn’t changed. He still trusted Castiel, even if he’d been taken out of his ‘weird-childlike-state’ or whatever. What did that even mean?

Groaning softly, Dean rubbed at his temples. Moving hurt, but not any more than after a particularly brutal hunt. It was weird to have open wounds but not be in danger of bleeding out. Dean inspected a gash on his left arm, eyes narrowed at the crimson flesh that had been torn open. It was a deep cut, and it throbbed like a motherfucker, but it wasn’t anything that would _kill_ him. Dean didn’t know how he knew that, but he did. Maybe it had something to do with Hell, and how the entire place was designed to prolong suffering, not kill. With the exception of having an innate _intention_ to kill, Dean didn’t think he’d ever actually ended a soul’s existence. Just made them wish it would happen.

He shuddered, wrapping his arms around his knees as he brought them up to his chest. He didn’t want to think about the past decade, didn’t want to think of the thirty years before that. God, it felt like a lifetime. 

Castiel was right. Dean didn’t remember some parts of Hell. There were whole gaps between memories. Most of it blended together anyway. Just endless days of torment and pain and loneliness. 

And peace, deep down inside. Peace in his decision. Dean knew that, despite all the pain and agony, despite the monster he’d turned into, he would do it all again if it meant saving Sammy’s soul.

He dug the blade of the dagger in the dirt, inspecting the silvery blade for a moment. Probably some angel crap.

And that was the other thing, Dean supposed. Angels.

_Angels are watching over you, Dean_. Dean shoved that thought away as fast as he could. It felt wrong, somehow, to be remembering his mother while sitting in a cave in Hell. Like the vile atmosphere of the place would somehow taint her memory, or something. It was ridiculous, but Dean tried to refrain from thinking of Sam or his mother again.

He glanced to the side, eyeing the angel in human form. The guy he was displayed as obviously wasn’t his true form. Dean wondered if it was the same as a demon possessing a human. He could see the light glow to the guy’s skin, as if he was super-healthy or put under a flattering light. It was weird.

The angel’s wings, enormous and black, were spread underneath him, fluttering lightly for seemingly no reason. Dean liked his wings, he decided. They looked like oil on water; black, but swimming with iridescent colors just under the surface. Soft, too. Shiny. There were some flecks of dirt or dust on the smooth feathers. Dean reached forward absentmindedly, wanting to touch, then halted halfway.

Right. A memory had surfaced, one featuring Castiel asking him politely not to touch his wings. He probably didn’t want them tainted or something. Now that he thought of it, Dean didn’t really want to touch them either. He didn’t want to get them dirty somehow.

Huffing, deciding to try to ignore the angel completely until he woke up, Dean turned away. He watched the mouth of the cave, scanning the sigils that had been carved into the rock. Hopefully, they would keep the demons away.

If they didn’t, well… Dean was ready.

Castiel woke up a few hours later. Hours, days, whatever. Dean couldn’t really grasp the passage of time here. No clocks or shadows, anyway.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel rumbled, sitting up and rubbing at his face blearily.

“Heya, Cas,” Dean replied, tentative and cautious. He eyed the angel warily, remembering the flash of hot pain in his head.

The angel stretched, groaning as something popped in his back. “I’ll admit,” he said conversationally, “I am not used to the limitations of a human body. I can feel all the things you struggle with, particularly because my grace is low.”

Dean shifted, frowning at the angel. “That leads to the question I had for you. Why are you here?”

Castiel narrowed his eyes at Dean. “I believe I told you. I was here to rescue you.”

“To rescue me,” Dean repeated skeptically. “Right. And what would one of God’s messengers want with me?”

Castiel tilted his head to the side. “Well, you’re the Righteous Man. You’re… important. Trust me.”

“Why?” Dean asked, getting a little frustrated now. “What the heck is a ‘Righteous Man’?” He paused, remembering a vague memory of before. Demons, outside the cave, muttering about ‘ _homo sanctus_ ’. About a ‘holy’ or a ‘righteous’ man.

“You are pure,” Castiel said. He sighed. “I wish I had more time to explain, but you most likely won’t remember this conversation when you are returned to Earth anyway. You are a pure soul, Dean. I was sent here to rescue you from Hell.”

Dean didn’t think he understood that part, because seriously? Him? Of all people, why him? He was like, the least deserving person to be saved by angels.

He decided not to argue that point, though, reading the ozone building in the air. He didn’t want to upset this angel, though he was pretty sure Cas wouldn’t hurt him. 

Instead, he tried to change the subject. “Who are you, then? I mean, I know your name, but not much else,” Dean said. He squinted, trying to remember anything about Castiel.

_Angel of Thursday_ , something supplied in the back of his mind.

The angel nodded. “I am the Angel of Thursday, yes. I am a general in Heaven. I command armies, garrisons of soldiers. My garrison fell on the way into Hell, in an attempt to rescue you.”

Dean blinked. “They died?”

“No, but they were sent back to the Host,” Castiel replied. “It is very taxing for an angel to have to rebuild themselves. They will be fine, though.”

Dean tried to wrap his head around an entire squad of angels coming into Hell to rescue _him_. “So you’re the leader?” he managed.

“I am,” Castiel replied. “I’ve commanded many garrisons in my time. One could say I am an experienced warrior.”

Dean’s eyes took in the odd look on the angel’s face, then slid to the dark wings arching gracefully behind him. “Oh. Is that why your wings are black? I thought angel wings were, like, white.”

Castiel’s eyes flicked to his wings, amusement twisting his features. “You seem very invested in my wings,” he remarked. Dean flushed, embarrassed by that for some reason. He looked away. When Castiel spoke again, it seemed he was trying not to embarrass Dean more by ignoring what had just happened. “They are black because I was born that way. Angel wings can come in many different colors. My older brother’s are pink and sparkly.” He frowned thoughtfully. “I have never seen another angel with black wings, though the Watcher had ash-gray wings. Like smoke, or thunderclouds. They were beautiful.”

“The Watcher,” Dean said slowly. “And which angel had pink wings? That’s… That’s weird.”

Castiel tilted his head to the side. “Is it? I don’t believe Lucifer thought so. Gadreel was the Watcher, the Guardian of Eden. His wings were awe-inspiring.”

Dean spluttered. “ _Lucifer_ has pink wings? Like, Satan?”

Castiel’s confusion seemed to be growing, as if he didn’t understand the problem here. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

Deciding the angel probably wouldn’t understand any more if Dean bothered to explain, the human simply shook his head. “Never mind.”

In the silence that followed, in which Dean tried to wrap his mind around the fact that Lucifer was, in fact, real and that he had pink wings, Castiel simply observed the human.

After a moment, the angel spoke again. “I quite enjoy your mind like this. It is amusing and… fiery.”

Dean blinked. “Fiery? What the hell does that mean?”

“Like that,” Castiel replied, indicating with his head. “Full of spikes and sharp edges.”

Dean stared at him, because what the fuck did that mean? And who _said_ something like that? Angels of the Lord, apparently. “Well, I’m glad being in my head amuses you.”

Castiel gave him a pleased smile. “It does. Very much.”

Dean groaned in exasperation. 

Dean would never admit that the next few hours of conversation were enjoyable. Castiel was awkward, but he had an endearing way of speaking and viewing things that made Dean find him undeniably adorable. His head-tilt thing when he was confused didn’t help.

Eventually, they reached more important topics than pink, sparkling wings.

“What’s the game plan?” Dean asked, sifting dirt through his fingers for something to do.

“Game plan?” Castiel echoed, head tilting to the left.

Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Castiel was endearing, but he had no concept of popular culture or of figures of speech. “What’s the plan for getting out of here? Out of Hell.”

Castiel’s jaw tightened. “Oh, yes.” He sighed, running a hand through the unruly dark hair on top of his head. “I suppose we’ll have to wait until my grace is recharged at least halfway. I would prefer not to be completely defenseless when I take us back to Earth.”

“What the hell is grace anyway?” Dean asked. He squinted. “Is it kinda like power?”

“Yes, in simple terms,” Castiel replied. “It is the essence of my being, the holy connection I have to Heaven. So far into Hell, it is hard to get a good connection with the Host.” Dean was tempted to ask if it was like a Wifi connection, because it sounded kinda like that, but he decided not to interrupt. Castiel had a tendency to be confused by every reference Dean made to modern Earth. The angel continued. “Healing you drains my grace, and I will need to complete one last session before I take you back.”

Dean frowned. “If healing me taxes you, why take me at all?”

Castiel frowned right back. “Why would I not? I couldn’t just leave you to eternal torment. Especially since your soul doesn’t belong in Hell anyway.”

Dean seriously doubted that last statement, but he decided not to argue. Protesting anything Castiel had said in the past usually ended in the angel being either confused or slightly offended.

“Okay, so when do you think we’ll be able to leave?” Dean asked. 

Castiel tilted his head to the side. “I believe we can go after I heal you a final time. I’ll need some more rest before that, but it won’t take long.”

Dean blew out a breath at that. “So… we’re really leaving, huh?”

“Yes,” Castiel replied. He smiled fondly at Dean. “You’re going back home, Dean. I’ll make sure of it.”

_Will you be there?_ Dean wanted to ask.

He didn’t.

Hours later, Dean kept watch.

He’d tried to dunk himself in the river again, just to see what would happen, and had found it freezing cold. It had been a shock, because of the temperature and because that meant that when he’d taken a bath in the river before, Castiel must have heated it somehow. The thoughtfulness of the action was both touching and strange. Unfortunately for Dean, it only served to make the warm thing in his chest even more fond of the angel.

Castiel was half-dozing now, sprawled out on the floor of the cave. His wings weren’t as spread out, but they were still taking up a lot of space. Again, Dean had to suppress the urge to reach out and stroke his fingers through the feathers.

He pointedly faced away from the soft-looking wings, angry he didn’t have more control of himself. To distract from the strange thoughts, Dean inspected the injuries still left on his body.

There were the obvious places on his skin were bruises and burns still stuck. Three fingers on his right hand were broken, one of them bent in a truly disgusting angle. He had gashes in random places. Overall, it was painful to move, but not something Dean was terribly held back by. He wondered if the fact that he’d been in constant pain for the last forty years was a factor in his tolerance for it.

Probably.

The young man squinted at his skin. It looked vaguely transparent, in the places where it wasn’t cut up or burned. He could almost see… _something_ through it, though what, he had no idea.

“Your soul,” Castiel murmured from beside him. He seemed half-asleep, his eyes closed. “The glow is your soul.”

“Like your grace?” Dean asked.

“Exactly,” Castiel said. He blinked his eyes open now, fixing them blearily on Dean’s face. “Your soul is brighter than some young angels’ grace. It’s incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I wasn’t glowing before,” Dean responded. He frowned. “At least, I don’t think.”

“You weren’t bonded to an angel before,” Castiel replied. He sat up a little. “Besides, your soul was too weighed down with pain and fear to be seen. Now, it’s showing through your temporary vessel.”

“Bonded to an angel?” Dean questioned, blinking. He glanced at his left shoulder instinctively.

“Bonded, yes. By your close contact to my grace, I suppose. And my… affections,” Castiel replied, shifting to a sitting position.

Dean stared. “Affections.”

“Yes.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means that I am personally fond of you, Dean Winchester. I enjoy the amusing fire of your personality and the brightness of your soul,” Castiel said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. “I have never seen anything like the soul you possess.”

“Dude, you can’t just _say_ things like that,” Dean muttered, the tips of his ears flaming up.

Castiel tilted his head to the side. “Why not?”

“Because it’s… I don’t know, weird,” Dean replied, flushing deeply. 

“You find it strange because the societal norms you have been conditioned with have taught you that verbal praise is equivalent to an intimate relationship?” Castiel asked. He frowned. “Is it because my vessel is male?”

Suddenly, there was a dark-haired woman sitting in front of Dean, blinking curiously at him.

Dean nearly died. “Wha-no! No, that’s not-That’s not the-you can stop now. Please, just… Just go back to normal. It’s not… It’s not _that_. Jesus tap-dancing Christ.”

Castiel, thankfully, reverted back to his male form. “So you _are_ interested in other males of the human species.”

“I-dude, _really?_ ” Dean groaned. “I am not having this conversation with an Angel of the Lord in the Seventh Ring of Hell.”

“We’re in the Sixth Ring,” Castiel corrected patiently.

Dean slapped his palm to his forehead. “Perfect,” he grumbled, hiding his face with his hands.

“I have seen the most intimate parts of your soul, Dean Winchester,” Castiel said matter-of-factly. “I know everything about you, including your hidden preference toward males instead of females. I also realize you are uncomfortable with speaking of such things, so I will cease to do so.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.”

Dean could cry with embarrassment, but he managed to hide his flaming face in his hands until it became a little less red. When he didn’t feel like dying of humiliation, he pulled his face from the safety of hiding behind his fingers.

“You’ve really seen my soul, huh?”

“Yes,” Castiel replied, giving him a happy smile. “It is very beautiful.”

“Mine?” Dean checked. “Seriously?”

The smile melted off the angel’s face. Castiel frowned. “You don’t believe me? Your soul is incredible, Dean Winchester. Bright as the galaxies and the grace of angels. Broken, stained with self-doubt and agony, but perfect all the same.”

“Broken?” Dean questioned, because that sounded _awful_.

“Because of your past experiences, yes,” Castiel replied. “You doubt yourself and your ties to your family. You are afraid of people you love leaving, and your self-esteem-“

“Alright, I get it,” Dean cut in. “Thanks.”

Castiel tilted his head to the side curiously, but thankfully remained silent.

Dean took the break in conversation to regroup his thoughts, trying to sort through all the awkward, hidden things Castiel had just laid bare with a handful of simple, well-meaning words.

_How is my soul beautiful if it’s as broken and tainted as Castiel is describing? He literally said it was beautiful, then explained that it had flaws._

“Flaws make human souls beautiful,” Castiel said, causing Dean to curse the ‘profound bond’ that had developed between them. He hated that the angel could read his mind. “Not mind-reading, Dean Winchester.” The angel sounded amused. “Just an analysis of emotions and intentions. As for human souls, their flaws are part of what makes them beautiful. The pain and insecurities that taint your soul make you strong.”

Dean wrapped his arms around himself. “That why I’m not insane?” he asked quietly.

“Partially, yes,” Castiel replied. “Another thing that kept you sane was your purpose. You did this for your brother Samuel. Sacrificing yourself to save another is a very honorable thing.”

“Yeah, well, it got me stuck in Hell forever, didn’t it?” Dean asked.

“Not forever, Dean Winchester.” Castiel stretched, eyes flickering with that eerie blue glow. “In fact, I believe it’s time to leave.”

“Go back to Earth?” Dean asked, surprised at how fast that process had been.

“Back to Earth,” Castiel agreed. “I’m taking you home.”

**Castiel**

Castiel was almost reluctant to heal Dean.

He did so without hesitation, of course, but he knew what came next. He would not be going with Dean Winchester when the Righteous Man reunited with his brother and surrogate uncle. Castiel needed to return to Heaven and face the inevitable war that was rising on the horizon.

He would come, though, if Dean called. He would always come if Dean called.

For now, the angel busied himself with rebuilding the soul’s last pieces, reverence in every movement made.

There were the last pieces of the soul itself, glowing and nearly too bright to look at. They hummed in Castiel’s hands, Dean’s soul pleased with the touch of a familiar grace. When it was repaired, every last piece of beauty and strength sewn together with gentle care, Castiel started on Dean’s physical vessel.

He finished fixing the last of the injuries first, focusing on the broken fingers and slashed skin. When every wound had been knitted closed, every bone remolded to its rightful place, Castiel gently reformed Dean’s face into the strong, handsome shape it had been before.

Softly, Castiel added the splatters of freckles across the human’s cheekbones and nose, smiling fondly at a particularly adorable one just under the edge of his left eye. The angel reverently added little flecks of gold to the green of shining eyes, shaping the starbursts of silver in the center like the galaxies they had once resembled. He moulded the strength back into the muscles of Dean’s entire body, gently added the dusting of a tan to golden skin. He lovingly bowed the hunter’s legs, smiling softly as he recalled what Dean had looked like before. Castiel gave him back the callouses on his rough hands. The angel healed the human’s liver, expelling years of alcohol abuse with a single disapproving frown. Finally, reaching the end of the grace he’d allowed himself for Dean’s rebuilding, he removed the scars from the hunter’s body.

All but one.

Castiel couldn’t bring himself to take his handprint away. He kissed it gently, knowing Dean was too out of it to notice, and pulled away when he was finished.

The newly rebuilt human blinked down at his reformed body, eyes wide. “Wow. I-Thanks, Cas.” He sounded choked, and it didn’t help the ache in Castiel’s chest.

The angel smiled gently. Sadly. “You’re welcome, Dean. Come, we must leave.” 

Dean nodded, standing. Castiel reattached the clasps of his cloak, then sheathed his dagger and hefted his sword. He clipped on his armor again, giving it an experimental tug. Finally, the angel turned to the human he had grown so fond of in such a short amount of time.

Dean gave him a little smile. “Now what?”

“Now we leave. And we fly,” Castiel replied, spreading his wings.

Dean’s eyes widened ever-so-slightly, newly returned green flashing brilliantly even in the dim light. He nodded quietly, eyes running reverently over the feathers of Castiel’s wings. The angel gave him a sad, fond smile, and extended his hand.

It hurt something in his chest to see how easily Dean took it, trusting and sweet even now. The human followed the angel out of the cave, past the wards that had been carved in merely days ago.

“You will awaken on Earth,” Castiel told Dean. “Four months have passed since your death and entrance in Hell.” He hesitated, then sighed. “You will not remember me.”

Dean blinked, frowning. “What? What do you mean, I won’t remember you?”

“You won’t. I cannot force that upon your memory,” Castiel replied gently. “I will take some of your more traumatic memories from the rack too. Not all of them, but… the worst.”

Dean shook his head, that beautiful fire lighting his green eyes. “No. No, I don’t want to forget you! I’ll gladly have the memories of Alastair if it means I can keep you.”

Castiel smiled sadly, kissing Dean’s forehead. “I’m sorry, little one. It’s the way things must be done.”

Dean looked upset, nose scrunching with frustration and sadness. “Cas, please,” he begged brokenly, green eyes welling with tears. “I… I-“

“Shh,” Castiel soothed. He closed his eyes, lips moving gently against the skin of Dean’s forehead. “I know.”

He gently turned Dean around so the human’s back was to his chest, curling a protective arm around Dean’s chest. His hand clasped the hunter’s left shoulder, settling right above the brand Castiel had so selfishly left behind.

Castiel closed his eyes. He could do this. He could be strong.

He would begin again. He would show this beautifully broken human what it was to feel love, to feel the depths of a bond forged before the stars had been born. A love so natural, it was almost like breathing. Almost like Falling.

“ _I love you too, Dean Winchester_.”

Castiel opened his wings and flew.

**Dean**

The mark was familiar. The angel was familiar. Everything was so achingly familiar, and it _hurt_. It made Dean’s head ache with the ghosts of wounds healed, made the brand of a handprint on his shoulder throb.

He stared at in the mirror of Bobby’s house, horror on his face, and wondered where the fuck it had come from and why it felt so _right_.

Dean wouldn’t figure it out until many, many years later.

Until he got to know the angel that stepped into the barn that night. Until he got to understand the sacrifices said angel had made for him. Until the last of the monsters were defeated and some divine power thought it was a good idea to give Dean his memories back.

Dean didn’t figure it out until he saw those blue eyes again, saw the way Castiel’s palm fit perfectly against the ghost of a brand that had never truly disappeared. He didn’t realize it until he realized he’d fallen in love with the angel all over again. Until he realized that he had always been in love with him, and maybe that was okay.

And when he went to said angel, when he fell to his knees before Castiel like he had done in Hell all those years ago, the angel cried tears of joy and kissed him. Dean Winchester returned it, felt the weight of familiar wings drape themselves around him in a protective, loving embrace.

The binding of two beings, soul and grace, warrior and hunter, angel and human, was complete.

**Author's Note:**

> :) I always loved that headcanon. It's adorable, especially since it allows me to create my own happy version of Supernatural where Destiel is canon. Not that we know if it isn't or not yet. Still waiting for that episode. :(
> 
> Anyway, I hope you liked it! If the 'falling in love' thing feels rushed, it's because I feel like it should be. Dean and Castiel were a match (literally) made in Heaven, so why would they waste time pining and stuff when all of Dean's insecurities are thrown out the door? That's my opinion, anyway.
> 
> I hope all of you are doing well! I'm currently working on another fic (and fighting a nasty case of writer's block while doing so. Any suggestions?). I hope to see you all soon, soon, soon!
> 
> I love you all from the bottom of my heart! :)
> 
> ~Faster_Than_the_Speed_of_Sound


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